


i should feel guilty, my mind is so damn filthy

by sinnerinsecret



Category: America's Got Talent RPF
Genre: (one vague reference that could be interpreted as such), (spoiler alert! he has several gaymoments!!), Brett Loudermilk Has A Gaymoment, First Time Blow Jobs, Gag Reflex Play, Hotel Sex, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Reality TV, Smoking, Throat Fucking, a non-zero amount of research went into writing this, if that's not a tag then it is now, mentions of COVID-19 pandemic, sword swallowing, to the point where i spent more time than i really should making sure details are accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26541358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnerinsecret/pseuds/sinnerinsecret
Summary: The kind of sordid, heady, desperate relationships fueled by adrenaline in the agony of reality television are rarely healthy, even in the best of times. A sword swallower and a rock star might just be a match made in hell.
Relationships: Branden Wilbarger | Bonavega/Brett Loudermilk
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	i should feel guilty, my mind is so damn filthy

**Author's Note:**

> this was written with the assistance of gratuitous substance use as a shoddy attempt at coping with being too sad over a variety show
> 
> because writing fanfic and destroying your body is coping, right. it’s not healthy but whatever helps you sleep at night
> 
> as always: please never let any of the individuals depicted know that this fanfic exists. and vote for brandon leake in the agt finale. cheers

This entire fixation began when he saw _his_ audition.

He didn’t plan on watching any actual episodes this season — not initially. Stilted conversation with a handful of other contestants at the auditions taping was enough interaction until further necessary.

And he knew, from the very beginning, of _course_ his performance was a long shot, of course it would be fraught with difficulties from the second he stepped foot onstage, but wasn’t his career in general the same? None of it was easy; finding the right audience was a talent in itself. It was the love of performing that spurred him onward, always.

(He never could have predicted the virus, and the way it fucked up the show as it did, but that — that was another story entirely.)

But since he took the opportunity that the show offered him, he might as well indulge in their frivolity. He followed the official accounts, because the social media presence at auditions were so very charming, and because (he figured) it looked better for a confirmed contestant to have done so. Following this, the show's feed inescapably advertised its premiere, and by that point in time — what with every single upcoming performance he could have ever planned being cancelled until further notice — he had nothing at all better to do that evening.

So _why not?_ Branden thought, and with fading makeup, a tattered bathrobe lifted from a Kansas City motel, and a half-empty pint of Ben & Jerry’s mint chocolate cookie, he did something he hadn’t done since his baby gay years: willingly watched a reality television show.

The golden buzzer was an obvious choice for Terry’s weird choir fetish, but on the whole, the episode was entertaining enough for a weekday alone in his apartment.

He skipped next week, as soon as he found out it was his episode, because he wasn't entirely ready to relive the most terrifying moment of his life on television.

But. The response following it was…

…it was many things. Overwhelming, for sure. The sudden influx of DMs, those of support, of praise, of disbelief; nudes and fanart and love propositions filled his inbox and it was unlike anything he could have predicted or expected.

Overall? It was _awesome._

Branden enjoyed unemployment, best he could with the constant itch to perform again. He did some photoshoots, hooked up with a variety of men and women (some who recognized him, and some who didn’t), planned music releases, worked on future tracks, and watched the show.

He made it this far, he might as well keep track of the competition, shouldn’t he?

AGT typically followed a more-or-less undeviating pattern in its episodes. A shocking or goofy act at the beginning, followed by filler, montages, the occasional moment of entertainment, until the episode inevitably ended with a singer golden buzzer. He caught on well enough to this format over the episodes he tuned into.

So he was caught off guard when Simon golden-buzzed a dance crew — a dance crew! — twenty five minutes into this particular broadcast.

That was the first sign of an unusual episode, and he paid more attention than usual to every performer, knowing each was a potential contender in the competition. He expected the child singer to close out the show, until he looked at the clock and saw there were fifteen minutes left.

...a sword swallower.

A _sword swallower?_

Branden found himself chuckling, at Sofia’s stubborn resistance, but mostly at the dry quips and jabs from the smartly-dressed, pink-haired performer. As someone who had stood on that stage, sweating, heart pounding, in front of those multi-millionaire celebrities dripping with influence, he understood the amount of pressure and knew better than anyone how enviable this level of composure was.

That, and… well.

He hadn’t thought about sword swallowing in any manner other than fictional, hadn’t ever considered it a marketable talent. If asked, he would have said he thought it a trick, a sleight, like any other form of magic.

But this hot guy on stage, and _god_ did he hate hearing himself internally call him hot but Branden had always been a sucker for a guy in a suit, he pressed them down his throat with such ease and expertise that he knew, he _knew_ it wasn’t a trick. He was swallowing those fucking swords! And letting the judges, those brainless plutocrats, pull them out of himself.

That kind of gag reflex suppression? Now that was impressive. The implication of it all, the sexual undertones, the thought of that pretty-faced pink-haired punk swallowing _other_ things immediately turned him on, mesmerized as he was by the sight of those swords disappearing down that slender neck.

Branden had, over the years, over the many, _many_ years since he was a questioning teen who found himself kneeling to a stranger twice his age in a Macy’s bathroom, wished for just a bit more control over when his tonsils decided to reject whatever foreign object was being inserted down his throat. He’d gotten a little bit better at it, sure, but—

Brett, the judges were saying, Brett Loudermilk, and Loudermilk was a funny name, Branden thought idly, sipping an Angel City Tejuino Gose and fondling himself through his boxers. Not that his _own_ was any better, but there was a reason he dropped it for his stage name. It was quite ballsy for someone to go with their god-given birth name as a variety performer, a _sideshow act_ , no less.

He watched as Loudermilk took _three_ of them down his throat, and Branden finished his beer. He wished he could say he waited until the episode was over to pull his half-hard cock out of his pants, but he wasn’t about to let any impressive displays of self-control begin now.

  
  


* * *

The fucker went pantsless in his Judge Cuts zoom call. Branden thought he was being a bit of a whore for doing his makeup, hair fixed, lighting, shaping up his stache, testing the angles beforehand, but then this motherfucker came out and showed off his meager bulge to every starry-eyed child and salty college kid and bible belt boomer watching the show and he _hated_ it, but he had to say, he’s impressed. Loudermilk knew his audience, obviously, and Branden was kind of resentful because there’d probably be some overlap with the audience he’s trying to cater to and that might be messy later on but for now, he’d respect it.

That was the first time he found himself in Loudermilk’s Instagram, as he automatically opened the app as soon as the commercial break began and he couldn’t resist navigating to his page.

It was somewhat amusing to see that the kid follows him. He wondered if Loudermilk looked at his profile at all, if any of that follow was thirst motivated, and it didn't take long after _that_ little thought seeded for it to take root and grow as he wondered just _why_ he followed him. To wonder if Brett had been keeping up with the season, the same way he had. if Brett saw his audition and maybe had a similar sort of epiphany, if he followed him right afterwards and saw his very carefully cultivated horny posts and maybe, if that’s the kind of thing Brett’s into — which wouldn’t be a stretch, he has those “repressed-questioning-sexuality-who-would-fuck-another-guy-if-he-was-desperate-enough” energies — and maybe, possibly, Brett got at _least_ little bit turned on by his posts, which, y’know, turning people on is kinda the reason he posts that shit to begin with, so at least he’s doing his job.

But for some reason, some weird reason, the idea that Loudermilk could have been looking at his feed and getting off to his pics was really… really very insidious and arousing and, hell. The episode wasn’t even fucking _over_ and his dick was already perking to attention at the idea.

Whatever. He’d look up the results later. The episode got boring fast once the judges stopped struggling with technology, and this fantasy was a bit more entertaining to chase down. 

Twenty-five minutes later, lounging in his own drying filth but too lazy to clean up (Quarantine, man… as if he wasn’t liable for such a thing before the world went to shit.), Branden found himself scrolling through Loudermilk’s feed, _deep_ scrolling, and maybe it was a millennial thing that seemed more intimate than it was, but isn’t there something inherently intimate when you care about someone enough to see what they looked like four, five years ago? And goddamn, Brett really had a second puberty the past couple years, didn’t he.

Branden prided himself on his stache, knowing not anyone could rock that look, and Loudermilk, obviously, was anyone.

  
  


* * *

He felt a bit bad about not voting for Loudermilk in that Dunkin Save, but in his defense, he skipped the liveshow results in favor of an impromptu threesome with friends who only had one free night while they were in L.A. Logically, there might have been something to gain from watching, at least to see how the results worked, but fuck it, he had pussy to go down on instead.

Loudermilk made it through, anyway. Given the ridiculous singer bias in this shit country, he almost — more than almost — doubted it would happen, but against all odds, beating out _every other fucking variety of the night,_ this idiot and his swords _made_ it.

That was when it occurred to Branden he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of making it through next week, as he scrolled through the updates on the AGT Twitter, his cock still twitching from overstimulation, the reek of sex heavy in the hotel room. If Loudermilk’s performance couldn’t carry him above middle three, then who would vote for _him,_ an ‘80s relic relying on sex appeal and long-dead nostalgia?

 _Fuck it,_ he thought, _life is only for living,_ he’d deal with next week when it happened, and he threw his phone across the room onto the couch.

“Any chance of round four?” he said, and promptly forgot all about Loudermilk.

  
  


* * *

Brett, on the other hand, had been following the season enthusiastically from day one.

He hadn’t kept his participation on the show a secret, despite his nerves for the reception — from his friends, his fanbase, from the audience in general — and despite his prior disregard for the entire… circus-like affair, he found himself swept into the hype. 

He watched every episode religiously, kept tabs on who performed, followed any contestants who stuck out, followed the Twitter and Instagram AGT tag, trawled the YouTube comments for impressions. Partially he wanted to put on a good impression to whichever members of the social media team looked out for this, partially because, even if he didn’t get out of this show intact, it wouldn’t hurt to make connections, and primarily because he was now confined to his apartment for god knows how long so he _really_ didn’t have anything better to do.

He'd known about Bonavega before the show was ever a prospect in his mind. When he lived in L.A., trying to get his feet wet in any sort of entertainment venue possible, he had kept track of local underground artists. There was always a possibility an opener would cancel last-minute and they would need someone to put up on stage, and he was entirely ready to burst in, violin case of swords in tow.

While he hadn't ever been able to attend one of Bonavega’s shows — as a performer or an audience member — his brand of music, his aesthetic, and his showmanship were all things that immediately made Brett realize this was a musician to keep track of, and shortly after that, as he found himself watching every music video available… multiple times… Brett realized some other things, too.

He didn’t know _why,_ exactly, he never allowed himself to admit his attraction. Bonavega was undeniably sexy, he could absolutely admit that. Those _legs?_ Brett (wanted to) consider himself straight, but those legs, those _abs_ , they tempted.

But when it started to escalate any point past accepting he was a pleasing-looking human being, Brett shut down entirely.

Oh, there were reasons, of course, but Brett tried to spend as little brainpower as possible overthinking his upbringing. 

So of course, of _fucking_ course, Bonavega happened to be on the same season that he was.

Brett was equal parts impressed and guiltily aroused by the audition, and watching Bonavega’s follower count explode in the aftermath brought a new wave of anxiety for when his own would air.

The best (best!) part about quarantine were the long stretches of time where he had no one to talk to and nothing at all to do, and because his self control was never a strong suit, he often caught himself in Bonavega’s Instagram feed. Even with the _type_ of photos Bonavega posted, even though he would mindlessly find his way back into his profile time after time, scrolling through and clicking through the photos until he felt his dick press against the mattress beneath him, Brett never let himself masturbate to him, as incredibly tempting as it was. 

He didn't want to admit his attraction to himself, but it was there, and he had resigned himself to it by the time the liveshows came around.

 _Bonavega could turn anyone,_ he mused. No shame in this.

* * *

One of the perks — though that word carried, perhaps, a bit too much significance — each contestant received was the ability to tune into an exclusive livestream (AKA, Zoom call) to watch the show in real time as it aired. Brett suspected it was the same footage they aired to the virtual audience, sans any producers barking for applause every ninety seconds. Yet, the stream was fairly high quality, and with free hotel Wi-fi (and, most importantly, no commercials) it was slightly preferable to cable viewing. 

So on the Tuesday evening after his own quarterfinal, having been shuttled to a marginally cheaper hotel further away from the studio lot until he returned for semis, Brett watched Bonavega's live performance on his Macbook, laying on his hotel bed in just his underwear, and it was…

...a decidedly transformative experience.

He had missed the clamor of a physical audience when he performed last week, but watching Bonavega work his magic, he _longed_ for it. (Mostly, though it hurt to consider — god did he miss live music — for himself to be part of it). As much as he enjoyed (experienced) the set, he knew the live reaction of a frenzied, cheering audience was the only way for someone like Bonavega to perform, and given the results last week, he knew all odds were against him.

(He rewound the stream, focusing on every detail, mesmerized by the shape of his body, his movements; he thought about how that that sweetly seductive voice would sound moaning in pleasure and had to bite his fist to keep himself quiet, his other hand touching himself through his pants, coaxing his arousal despite every instinct to resist the temptation.)

The judges prattled their hollow critiques, and Brett's mind began to work. He might not be allowed _backstage,_ but he was a contestant, he’d be allowed on the Universal Studios lot. He’d gotten tested again yesterday, there’s no reason they wouldn’t let him in, and he could bullshit his way past it if necessary.

(He wasn’t going to indulge in this. He couldn’t. Ever since his teens, a cold shower did wonders for an unwanted erection.)

As it turned out, getting inside wasn’t even an issue. The show was still technically airing as he arrived; they were preparing for Goodwin's judge reaction and preparing the entire choir backstage, and after showing his contestant identification most staff didn’t look twice at Brett.

At this stage of the competition, with as many acts left as there were, the contestants weren’t impressive enough to afford the proper dressing rooms or separate trailers; in the lower wings of the theater, closet-sized green rooms were sectioned off for their use, before and after the show. Yet most contestants didn’t stick around for too long, particularly those who performed in a group. On his way into the theater, Brett passed a group of young adults on their phones, clad in black clothes with matching masks, waiting for their Uber pool, and as he headed to the green rooms was approached by a small dog, wagging its tail ferociously, who was quickly and apologetically scooped up by a shyly smiling young girl.

AGT was an _experience._

There was no particular pattern indicating which wing of suites each contestant occupied, so Brett wandered, attempting to project the aura of having a purpose for being here, until he found the sign, printed on computer paper and taped to the door, that he was looking for. _BONAVEGA,_ it read, and Brett knocked.

He had changed out of his performance outfit, donning bright turquoise cropped pants instead of tights and fishnets, and a gold nylon jacket over his bare chest, hanging loosely around his elbows, that shimmered with his movements. He was alone, which was curious, considering how every other contestant was flocked as many family and friends they could get tested. As he stepped back from the door, Brett noticed he was still wearing his stage make-up, and, forcing his gaze not to linger, the bedazzled nipple pasties.

“Hey,” Brett said, already somewhat flustered, before Bonavega had any chance to speak. “I’m Brett. Uh, Brett Loudermilk. I’m- I'm another contestant, I was on last week…”

Bonavega chuckled, nodding in recognition. “I know who you are, man. It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Brett said, the entire experience feeling far too unreal. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but, ah. You know how things are right now.”

Bonavega laughed, genuinely this time, extending his hand regardless. “If your experience has been anything like mine here, you couldn’t catch it if you tried. Which, considering what you do onstage, seems like you might be.”

Brett shook his hand, warm and firm and skin surprisingly silky soft.

“Any reason in particular you came all the way out here?” he asked, and this was the question Brett was dreading.

He ran his fingers through his hair, exhaled. “Wanted to offer some support? You were really damn good up there. And I know the waiting sucks. And, uh.” _Oh, god, please don’t think this is cringey._ “I've... followed you for a while. Listened to your music back when I lived in L.A. too, big fan. Wanted to meet you while I still had the chance.” He realized how this sounded, hurrying to amend his statement. “Just in case? Uh.”

“Nah, I get it. I appreciate you coming all the way out here, I really do.” Bonavega pulled the jacket back over his shoulders, picked up a cloth mask (pink, Brett noted) from the vanity, and moved to his feet. “I’d offer you a seat, if there was one to spare. Want to walk?”

And they did, and got to talking. Bonavega was very, very different than Brett expected, though, to be fair, he wasn’t sure what it was he was expecting. 

It was nice to hear the perspective on the show from someone like him. A singer, but not one of _those_ singers. And Brett couldn’t help but be envious of the way he carried himself — so confident, so certain.

At some point, the biggest of the chaos from the show had died down, and they found themselves near the front of the lot.

“Want to go get a drink?” Bonavega asked. “I'll buy.”

Brett agreed, because why wouldn’t he agree? Despite being clothed in normal — normal? — garb, the singer’s exposed skin was still flecked with glitter, his features dramatized with makeup, and not to mention his _vibrant fucking yellow hair,_ but, jesus, with the sleeves pulled up every movement showed off Bonavega’s taut bulging arm muscles and it was nothing sort of mesmerizing so when he blurted out “God, yes,” it was a little too enthusiastic but thankfully Bonavega laughed along anyways.

“Don’t know how well you know L.A., but you cool with the Brickyard?”

Despite working in the city for several years, Brett was woefully unfamiliar with the bar and pub scene, but his mouth worked before his brain did and he agreed while also, unnecessarily, claiming to love the place, and immediately wished he had not spoken.

_Why did you say that? You don’t even drink, dumbass._

Bonavega, thank god, seemed to take it in good spirits, chuckling at his enthusiasm. “Rock on. I’ll call a Lyft, North Hollywood’s a bitch to get around in otherwise.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Brett said, and hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he had no idea what he was talking about.

* * *

The Lyft ride was awkward, but maybe he was overthinking it. _Maybe_ it was inherently awkward to be sitting ten inches from a man that he had touched himself to only hours prior. He wanted to act casual, make conversation, or at least sit in comfortable silence, but his brain was short-circuiting at the suffocating presence right next to him and he couldn’t figure out what to say. And he had to give props (sarcasm, ha) to the driver for deciding that no music was required as background noise for the trip.

So Brett sat stock still, antsy, fiddling with his phone and wishing he could be slightly more at ease.

Slightly more how Bonavega looked, who seemed the picture of comfort, heels kicked up against the back of the passenger seat, arm lounging against the door, examining his fingernails and humming under his breath and the glitter flecked on his neck caught the light of the streetlights zipping past the window outside and Brett tried his best not to let his gaze linger too long.

(Tried not to let his gaze linger, when his mind couldn’t erase the image of Bonavega gyrating onstage, the curl of his lip, the shape of his bulge, the expert movement of long fingers on guitar strings, passionate and seductive and jesus, here he was, sitting _next_ to that.)

“I’m, ah, kind of surprised they’re still open,” Brett said, as they arrived and waited (six feet) behind the couple before them to be seated. “You know, with the… everything.”

“God, I am too,” Bonavega replied sincerely. “I used to go to this place all the time, they’re one of the few bars with the available space to stay operational. Limited tables, sanitizing between bussing, all that. Any idea what you want to get?”

“I…” Brett coughed nervously. “Uh, just so you know, actually I don’t drink—”

“Oh, that’s cool.” Bonavega waved his hand dismissively. “I wasn’t gonna drink much anyways. Have you eaten?”

They were seated at an outdoor table, one available for the first time all week; the weather had been shockingly rainy in L.A. for the past several weeks, and the air was uncharacteristically fresh from the City of Angels’ much needed shower.

“I used to be a waiter, you know,” Bonavega said, flipping through the drink menu, after they had ordered an appetizer and apéritif from a young, nervous looking waitress, whom Brett got the impression actually recognized them. “Years ago, when I first moved here, before I’d gotten any gigs.”

“You… you did?” It was strange, how much dissonance there was between the relaxed, soft-spoken man before him and the figure he watched onstage, and thought struck him. “Oh! Oh. This is, ah, stupid…” He glanced down at his phone case, rubbing a thumb along the edge. “But I've been calling you Bonavega in my head all night and I know your real name is, uh, Branden, I think?”

“Yeah, you think correctly.” He looked highly amused by the line of conversation.

Brett exhaled the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. “Do you care…?”

Bonavega (Branden?) laughed, and in the pitch of his voice Brett heard echoes of his music. “I mean, I'll respond to both, you dig? But my stage name doesn't tend to flow as well in casual convo. Whatever you want though, man. For what it's worth, I keep calling you milk boy in my head, so.”

“M-milk—” This was a _bad_ time to sip at his water, he realized, and barely managed not to spill all over himself. “Oh my god.”

“Sure you get that one all the time.” Despite the mask, Brett could tell he was grinning, his feet propped up on the empty chair at his side of the table. 

“I mean, listen, I’ve lived with this name for thirty-one years, I’ve heard every joke there is, but _god._ Not even milk man? Milk _boy?”_

Branden shrugged, looking pleased with himself, as he tossed the menu back onto the table.

As they talked, Brett slowly but surely found himself growing more and more comfortable; Branden was so undeniably likeable, it was impossible _not_ to. And he seemed just as eager and interested in what Brett had to say, which he couldn’t quite believe given that, other than the show, he had nothing of note to share from his past five months. 

“Yeah, I _don’t_ recommend freeze-dried avocados,” Brett finished, feeling somewhat pathetic that impulse freeze-dried food purchases were the most memorable thing he had done while waiting for his judge cuts Zoom call. “Stick with the eighteen-dollar avocado toast, it’s a better bargain, and I’m not even kidding.”

God, quarantine had _really_ fucked up his social skills, hadn’t it.

But Branden was genuinely amused by his stories, laughed appropriately at his jokes, and Brett realized, as they finished up and conversation wound down, how he wasn’t looking forward to parting ways, and attraction aside, how much he enjoyed this interaction, how much more time he wished he could spend with him, and the lingering possibility that tomorrow could cut this time short.

_Fuck this show._

As Branden scribbled a signature onto the tab (in addition to, he noted, something on the customer receipt which may have been autograph for their starstruck server), Brett remembered the carton he'd tucked into his pocket, hours earlier while suppressing the urge get himself off, and realized he could both very much use one and take an excuse to prolong their time together.

“When you're done, I’m gonna go find somewhere where I can chance taking the mask off for a smoke, if you want to come,” he said, knowing it was a bit desperate.

But Branden didn't appear to care. “Hell yeah. Whatever you want, milk man.”

* * *

He didn't drink, he didn't do drugs. Smoking was his only vice. Very occasionally, grossly indulgent, disappointingly unhealthy, for certain, but keeping it restricted to times of stress and as an infrequent delicacy while those around him imbibed had him resist nicotine addiction so far.

“Want one?” he offered to Branden.

He looked tempted, but declined.

“You know. The pipes.”

The taste of cigarette smoke and the soggy, melancholic August air brought back foggy, fragmented old memories, too many to count, as he exhaled and warmth curled through his body.

His first kiss. His first heartbreak. His first hookup. It’s always fucking August.

In a sudden bout of emotional vulnerability, the cause of which could be tracked to a variety of directions (the tobacco, the strange vulnerability of the setting, the uncertainty of this stage of the competition, the unbearable loneliness of quarantine), he voiced this sentiment to the man with him, who thankfully seemed to take an interest in this line of conversation.

“I mean, I don’t think it’s entirely the same for me," Bonavega said, examining his fingernails. “My first kiss was in December. But I get what you mean, with this time of year. Season starting to turn, brings back all the nostalgia. The air just feels different, too. And living in these times, on this show, it makes everything even more screwy. Makes you think about the before-times, maybe with a little more rose-tinting then you would be otherwise.”

“Yeah," Brett said, thoughts spinning, toying the cigarette in his fingers and wishing they had infinitely more time than they did to get to know each other. “I know what you mean."

They were silent for a few minutes, Brett smoking, lost in thought, Branden typing a few lines into his phone before sighing and pocketing it.

“Fuck it,” Branden said, “you mind sliding me one?”

Brett did not mind at all, passing him the carton, and Branden leaned forward with the tube between his lips, and they shared the intimate ritual of lighting the other up, and as he did Brett couldn't help pressing his fingertips against Branden's lips.

They came away covered in glitter.

His first inhale was prolonged, taking it like a pro, but Brett noticed him choke back a cough on the exhale, and chuckled. “How often do you smoke?”

“Tobacco? Not since my twenties.” His second hit was more reasonable, and the sight of that perfectly contoured face blowing out smoke shouldn’t have been seductive as it was. “Other substances, more recently, still not often. Prefer to vape it.”

“Artsy, huh?” Brett quipped, and Branden shoved him good-naturedly.

“The _pipes,_ man. I'm sure it’s not good for the sword swallowing, either.”

“Oh, it’s not. But hey, sword swallowing isn’t good for sword swallowing, so it defeats the entire fucking point. And no fun if you're not trashing your body in ways that could ruin your career.”

“Cheers to that,” Branden agreed, rolling the cigarette, his painted nails flashing.

For a prolonged, suffocating moment, Brett wondered if his impulses might do something as sentimental as try to kiss him.

But the moment passed, and they settled back into a contented silence, smoking and leaning against the barren concrete wall of the establishment they had posted at, closed indefinitely due to quarantine, the streets hauntingly empty, surrounded by reminders of how much the world had changed.

“Hey,” Branden said haltingly, “I know I won’t sleep for a couple more hours. Still wired from the show. This has been real nice, getting to know you, Brett. You want to come back with me? If you don’t have anything else goin’ on.”

It could be interpreted innocently. They could keep talking, swapping stories, offering support, discussing the show. Brett could _decline_. The paths before him branched in so very many myriad ways that wouldn’t have to end in sex.

Brett snuffed out his smoke, Branden's bright blues eyeing him, and with sweat shining along his brow, smoke trailing from the cig dangling loosely from his hands, hair catching the light from the flickering streetlamps, he looked more human than he had all evening.

“Sure,” he replied.

* * *

The blast of air conditioning was a welcome relief for the sweat he hadn’t realized was pooling in every crevice of his clothing, sticking to his skin.

They collapsed to the furniture, and Branden, ignoring any protests, began looking through the replies he was receiving on his performance across the various AGT feeds, seeming far too amused about the entire thing. He recounted aloud some of the comments he was getting, to which Brett rolled his eyes, the words sounding rather too painfully familiar.

“Please. Don’t worry about it. You should’ve seen what people were saying about me. How what I do is gross, unnatural, shouldn’t be shown on TV…” He trailed off, thoughts beginning to wander, and forced himself to forget it. “Really makes you think, huh.” 

“Hey, that reminds me.” Branden closed his phone, tossing it next to him on the couch. “There's something I’ve been wanting to ask you. It’s kind of a… weird question, though.”

“Yeah?” Brett raised an eyebrow, grinning mischievously. “Everything I do is weird, ask away.”

“Okay, I’m sure everyone asks this, but I gotta know!” He rubbed the back of his neck apologetically and cleared his throat. “You, uh. The sword swallowing… it’s all real, right?”

“Real as your singing, yeah.” 

He tilted his head curiously, unable to help himself. “Okay, I know this is a bit of a dickish thing to ask, you totally don’t have to do it! But, mm, theoretically. Could you swallow something right now?”

Brett leaned back, amused. “If you have something long enough, then absolutely. Any wire coat hangers?”

After a couple moments of rifling, while Brett sentimentally recounted anecdotes of his first time hilting a coat hanger to the hook, Branden produced one from the closet.

“And you’re sure you can do this,” he said doubtfully, watching as Brett stretched the wire into a straight rod.

“Hey, it’s easier than a keyhole saw.” He drew his tongue over the length, coating it generously with saliva, lingering maybe just a bit longer on his strokes than he otherwise would have as he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, the intensity Branden watched with.

 _Oh, the inherent eroticism of what I do,_ he thought, and he tilted his head back, straightening his throat, and did what he does.

Branden watched the wire disappear down Brett’s throat, as he gestured enthusiastically to himself, before pulling it, dripping with spit, back out.

“Ta-da.”

“Milk man, you’re certifiably insane, but I love it.” Branden shook his head in disbelief, folding his arms behind his head. “So it really does go _all_ the way down. No gagging or anything?”

“Lost my gag reflex in my teens,” Brett said, making a face as he licked the fluid off the hanger. “Which sounds worse every time I say it, I know.”

“I mean…” Brett noticed Branden choosing his words carefully, and he placed the hanger onto the desk where it lay, forgotten. “That’s _kind of_ what I wanted to ask. I know people who would do anything for the ability you have, but I, hm, don’t think swords are what they'd be using it on.”

Brett sat back down, and despite his heart rate picking up as he realized what Branden was very clearly implying, he persisted. “Do go on.”

“Okay, you know I’m talking about sex. And I know I’m not the first person to ask you about this, but hey, no shame, no judgement, it’s a natural thing everyone does. I’m just super curious.” He eyed the stretch of Brett’s exposed neck. “It would work the same way, right? I guess a dick and a sword, or, hm, a coat hanger are pretty different, though.”

This was dangerous territory to tread. 

“Not as different as you’d think,” Brett said absently, and he had to look down to prevent himself from staring too long at Branden’s bulge.

“So have you tried before?”

“I haven't…” Brett trailed off, praying he didn’t look as flustered as he felt. He was thirty-one years old, for god’s sake, he had literally attended orgies and simulated sex acts onstage and his entire gimmick relied on the coarsest of fellatio humor and _there was no rational explanation_ for feeling any degree of embarrassment in discussing his sexuality, particularly with the man before him, and _yet._ “...haven’t ever done that. Uh, on another guy, I mean. Of course I've done oral before. And I’ve had sex with guys — well, hand stuff, but _I_ think that counts. But no,” he laughed nervously, looking down to avoid Bonavega’s gaze, “I guess I wouldn't say that my _skills_ have expanded that far.”

Branden hummed, the most neutral of responses possible, and Brett wished he could cover his face with his hands, wished he could take out his phone and disappear into the bathroom.

“Alright,” Branden said, and small mercy of small mercies, he sounded just as laid back and casual, no hint of teasing. “Any reason why? You not into that particular aspect of sex with other men, opportunity never come up, no one ever ask…?”

And when Brett faltered, Branden continued, with a touch more gentleness, “No need to get into it if you don’t wanna. I’ve fuckin’ been there, man, believe me.”

“No, it’s fine.” Brett exhaled, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know why it’s… hard to talk about right now, I don’t _care_ this much. I dunno. I guess the opportunity has just never come up. People make crass jokes all the time, sure, it comes with the territory of what I _do,_ and I always feel like I gotta defend myself because it never… come from an unbigoted place. If that makes sense.”

“Hah, milk man, that makes more sense than anything you’ve said so far tonight.”

He remained silent, dragging his hand down the side of his face and rubbing his two-day old stubble, chancing a glance up at Bonavega. He was looking across the coffee table, directly at him, head tilted curiously, eyes glinting.

“Of course, if you _are_ looking for the opportunity…”

Brett’s mouth, for some reason, suddenly felt very dry.

“Oh.”

“Mhmm.”

So this was happening? This was happening. Even though, fuck, he knew this would happen, and that was why he was _here,_ in this place and in this moment and feeling his heart catch in his chest and despite the cold, sterile hotel room air he felt suddenly inexplicably breathless; despite all roads leading to this he still couldn’t comprehend that it was _actually happening._

His voice didn’t sound at all like his own, as much as it did listening to a distant version of himself. “You’re asking if I’ll blow you.”

“Hell yeah, I am. With that throat? And that face? And this so-very-convenient encounter? There’s no way I couldn’t, and I think you know that.”

He’s not wrong.

“But, y’know. No pressure to, duh. We can keep talking instead. You can head out whenever you want.” Brett had _no earthly idea_ how the other man managed to be so collected while propositioning this, while he prayed his cheeks weren't as pink as his hair. “Dunno if you’ve got somewhere to be. But, well. If you do want it. Here’s that opportunity.”

Without his brain giving any command, his voice worked on its own, speaking the words he knew he would regret if he didn’t.

“I… I think I’ll take it.”

The grin he witnessed in that instant was nothing short of predatory.

“C’mere, then.”

Trancelike, Brett rose from his seat opposite the room, sinking into the couch next to Bonavega, who looked him over and ran his tongue over his lips and reminded Brett far too much of a big cat stalking prey.

“You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

“Thank _god._ Listen, I don’t know about you, but after performing I get so unbearably horny and I’ve been holding this in all goddamn night just fuckin’ hoping you’d ask. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long, dude. How do you like taking orders? You don’t _seem_ like a sub, but I’ve been wrong before.”

This was. A lot of information to process.

After taking a moment for his brain to catch up and his mouth to close, Brett decided to respond with the only answer he knew. “I, uh, I don’t really get horny after being onstage, no. I’m usually too relieved I didn’t piss myself in front of everyone.”

“God, you’re adorable.” And before Brett could react there were hands fisted in his hair, curled at the nape of his neck, drawing him close and his own hands instinctively rose to press against the other’s chest and it was a rough, messy, frantic kiss but _fuck_ that only made it better, as an expert tongue pushed against his own and licked the inside of his mouth and he was helpless, utterly pliant, until Bonavega pulled away leaving the taste of synthetic peach lip gloss and, he could assume from the smudged make-up, tang of glitter on his mouth, something he imagined he wore very well, if the look he was being given was any indication.

“Pull me onto your lap,” Brett murmured, violently aware of the pulsing he felt in his nethers.

“Oh, _gladly,”_ Bonavega groaned, and they shifted positions so Brett straddled his hips, pressing their crotches together and the pop of friction as he shiveringly ground down against the other made his spine tingle with pleasure.

"My fucking god," Brett gasped, as Bonavega bit down on the edge of his jaw, pressing a kiss under his ear, and he could feel the grin against his skin.

“Keep grinding on me,” Bonavega purred, moving his hands down Brett’s back to clutch at his ass and he couldn’t help the embarrassing sound that escaped him, as he pressed his forehead into Bonavega’s shoulder, hips stuttering forward to feel their clothed cocks throb against each other.

“I think I do like following orders,” Brett murmured, head pounding with lust, “at least when you give them.”

“Yeah? Get on your knees.”

Without a second thought, Brett shifted forward from the couch onto the floor. His heart pounded in his chest, pulse reverberating all the way to his fingertips and certain other extremities, pumping to life with every beat and pressing painfully against his pants. 

Any words fell silent on his tongue when he gazed up at the man above him, lithe and toned, looking down and licking his glossy lips and Brett _wanted_ so very, very badly because in this stage of the competition, their worlds could change forever in only twenty-four hours so why not give in?

He had ran out of excuses when he let himself be taken to this room, and though a distant, heavily conditioned area of his psyche was trying to override his system with panic, he forced any thought of stopping aside and knew he had to do this.

Branden — Bonavega? — fuck if it matters — cupped his hand to Brett's jaw, brushing his thumb over the other man’s lips, and Brett felt fingers press against his Adam's apple as he swallowed, savoring the sensation.

“You look cute like this,” Branden hummed, “on your knees suits you. You have plenty of good angles, don’t get me wrong, but like this… looking down into those big brown eyes… very nice.”

Brett would have quipped in protest, anything to save the dignity of being called cute, but that manicured thumb was sliding between his lips and rubbing against his tongue and any words he could have managed failed against that digit. 

_Bonavega really can turn anyone,_ he thought blearily, as he looked up at him, currently palming himself through his pants and forcing his thumb deeper into Brett's mouth.

“I don’t wanna fuckin’… sound like a douchebag,” Branden murmured, beginning to withdraw his thumb, and disgustingly, Brett missed the pressure of it. “But I’m not small. I haven’t had anyone been able to, ah, actually properly _deepthroat_ me before, y’know, so no pressure, I guess. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Unable to resist, Brett jerked his head back the remaining distance to free his lips from the lingering intrusion. “I mean, jesus. Are ya bigger than a two foot sword? Because I’d be impressed, but also, maybe wanna see someone about that.”

Branden laughed, and god, it was a melodic sound that echoed his singing, full-bodied and passionate and warmth curled its way through Brett’s limbs. 

“If you say so.”

He tugged at his pants, the tight fabric seemingly reluctant to budge from clinging to the contours of his hips, and Brett was unable to look away, distantly aware of his heartbeat drumming in his ears, as Branden freed his length and it bobbed into the open air and he was definitely _not_ exaggerating about his size but Brett’s mouth still flooded with saliva at the sight.

Without a word, Brett leaned forward, pressing the flat of his tongue against the tip of the length before him, a surge of sensation that simultaneously felt so new and foreign and dirty and yet, so _normal._

He heard a soft groan from above him, as a hand cupped the side of his face, guiding the strokes of his tongue across the arousal that seemed so monumentally exceptional from this perspective. It tasted of salt and tang and sweat, of skin, and somehow felt so much more familiar than it had any right to be.

The hand on his jaw gripped harder, pulling him back and tilting his face up, and Brett, feeling rather dizzy, gazed into Branden’s adoring eyes looking down at him.

“Open up, then.”

His mouth opened, almost of its own volition. He tucked his tongue back, and Branden pushed his cock inside.

Brett felt his throat relax, the muscles automatically slacken as the foreign pressure nudged his tonsils, a reflex that had taken months of coat hangers down the gullet to accomplish and years to perfect. 

“There ya go,” Branden exhaled, “just like that.” Branden slid the first few inches down the tight, wet heat; _the same yet not_ flashed through Brett's mind and then thought gave way entirely to instinct as Branden reflexively plunged the rest of his length into him, and it burned with the glide of skin against skin and it wasn’t a sword but how different was it, really? 

Impossibly thick, throbbing so intensely he felt it resound in his bones, and oh, god, his face was pressed into his pubes and his hands were shaking against his thighs but everything, it seemed, had led to this. He was a sword swallower, and this _wasn’t_ a sword, but he was swallowing nonetheless. 

“Holy fucking christ,” Branden gasped, and Brett wished he could see his face.

His mind had gone pleasantly blank, ears ringing, an odd, distant sort of pleasure vibrating through his limbs as Branden’s fingers curled into his hair, and he began to thrust shallowly down Brett’s throat.

It was so very different from the usual cold hard metal that slid down his esophagus, but over fifteen years of gag reflex suppression made him react the same way. His tongue flattened, his throat slackening, the rest of his body going limp accordingly as he focused on timing his breathing; despite every latent human survival instinct that screamed at such an intrusion in the most vulnerable of spaces, Brett swallowed Branden’s cock like he would any other object that was stuffed into himself as part of his performances.

It wasn’t as commonplace for the sword he was swallowing to fuck itself slowly and deliberately down his throat, groaning out loud from the tight velvet constriction, fingers tightening in his tousled pink hair, but it was still, he decided, preferable to the keyhole saw.

Branden pulled out, leaving just his tip, heavy and leaking, on the flat of Brett’s tongue, and Brett collected himself enough to dizzily gaze up at the face staring down at him with adoration.

He realized, despite that he’d been doing his best to call the other man by his offstage name all night, it was difficult not to internally refer to him as Bonavega, especially when confronted with the sheer perfection of his body. It was almost inhuman, his muscles flexing, the sheen of sweat on his chest, the smudged makeup, all of it radiating sexuality.

“God damn,” he hummed, and his thumb moved from its spot under Brett’s ear to trace over his jawline, run over his stubble, collect the saliva that Brett didn’t notice had been pooling at the corner of his lips. “Like, fuck, man. I know you’re built for this, every part of you is, you’ve spent your entire fuckin’ professional career dedicated to being able to do this kinda shit but dude. If you wanted a career in gay porn, you’d get it, easy. If this ever stops bein’ lucrative I know some folks you can hit up for a side job.”

Brett licked his lips, staring up at Branden, feeling his body hum at the praise and the genuine delight in his eyes. He had a penis right in front of his mouth, had an entire toned abdomen above him, but those fucking eyes, those bright blue eyes drew him in and drowned him. “It’s already not lucrative, so uh, guess I might as well hit you up, huh?”

It felt _so good_ to make him laugh.

And then that cock, that wonderful cock, slid back down his throat and Brett just fucking _took it._

He sat there, letting Bonavega hump at his jaw, letting himself be used. He felt his pharynx distend, felt the shape of his cock push itself into his neck, past his tonsils, bury into the accepting flesh over and over over, gradually increasing with pace and velocity. His own cock was so very hard in his pants, his hands trembling, eyes watering, as he felt his throat used by this perfect specimen of a man.

It still hurt, in a multitude of ways. The burn of his knees against the hotel carpet, the sting of his hair being pulled, the ache of the unnatural position of his neck, all in combination with the intrusion forced down his throat over and over again. And, god, there was the latent, lingering humiliation, being so entirely overpowered and helpless to stop it, and the deep primal excitement that came with being so brutally used.

 _“Fuck_ yeah,” he groaned, gripping Brett by the back of his neck, thrusting hard.

The sounds may have been even worse, so disgustingly lewd, the slap of his balls against his chin, the wet suction of drool and bile frothed from his throat, no chance to swallow, not that he cared. Brett’s lack of a gag reflex had long ago dismissed the collection of liquid pooling in the base of his mouth as anything to care about, be it saliva or, as it were, precum. The slap of flesh on sodden flesh seemed monumental in the hotel room, the only sounds, echoing in Brett’s ears, being the hum of the overworked California air conditioner and Branden’s heady, yet quieter than expected, groans.

“You’re so good,” he purred, in time with his thrusts, “so fucking good. Look at you, taking me so well. Look at your face, it’s made for my cock, isn’t it?”

Brett chanced a hum of agreement — something he had to admit, he hadn’t necessarily tried with a sword down his throat — and damn if the sensation wasn’t strange. The thick rod of flesh penetrating him, vibrating softly with the thrum of his own vocal cords, and Bonavega shuddered, almost as if in synchrony.

“I…” Yet again it struck Brett how odd it was, the softness of Branden’s voice, in stark contrast with everything else about him. “I’m getting close. Can I… can I come, down, your…”

He was relenting, it seemed, for the purpose of Brett’s response. The thrusts slowed to the point where Brett could withdraw — holding the tip within his lips for a few moments, laving his tongue over his slit — before pulling off, chest heaving for breath he didn’t realize he needed, thick strings of saliva hanging out of his mouth. 

“Yeah, fuck. Go for it. I can take it.”

Without premise, he was thrusting again, more urgently, more determined; Brett’s jaw weakened and gaped and he focused only on breathing.

Branden’s hips slammed against his face, and he could visualize it, but on some level, some perverted, depraved level, he kinda wished he could see it for himself. He bet his face looked good as hell, being fucked like this, being ruined and violated right down the throat.

“Oh,” Branden gasped suddenly; his hands clenched the sides of Brett’s face even harder, and his thrusts began to, impossibly, speed up. “Oh god, oh fuck, oh.”

Brett chanced it with the air he had in his lungs, knowing he wouldn’t get another inhale in and hoping he didn’t asphyxiate; he held his teeth back and felt the thrusts bash against the walls of his throat, hard and rough and desperate.

One, two, three more thrusts, before he stilled, pressing Brett’s face all the way against his crotch, holding him there, unable to escape.

He felt his cock twitch inside his throat, and he flooded the back of Brett’s throat.

Though swallowing solid objects was an everyday occurrence by this point, a category that, yes, even certain anatomical parts could be added to, swallowing _liquids —_ that is to say, any volume more than the dribble of precum and drool (as in, the cum currently being shot down this throat) — was an entirely foreign sensation.

So foreign was this sensation, in fact, that Brett felt an unfamiliar reflex clench, a reflex he hadn’t experienced in _years,_ followed by a wave of dread and sickened arousal.

He retched around Branden’s cock, as the other man came down his throat, and the bleary part of his brain bet the involuntary contractions around his sex organ probably felt damn good, but between the sudden gagging and the persistent lack of air, Brett was reasonably terrified at the risk of vomiting on his dick.

With the practiced skill of a sword swallower who knew that any sudden removal of an offending object was the worst possible reaction to take, Brett let the first retch subside, and as the remaining spurts began and his throat constricted again, focused all of his control on swallowing every last drop.

Lost his bliss that Branden was, he didn’t notice the sudden violent gagging, which Brett considered for the best. Maybe someday, if they retained any semblance of friendship, he’d tell him about this, but that was, very much, a story for another day.

“God damn,” Branden panted, “that’s _it.”_

He kept Brett’s mouth on him until his body went weak, until the throes of orgasm subsided, and Branden slowly withdrew from his mouth, his cock still throbbing with lingering aftershocks.

“Sorry about that. Been a couple days. I…” Branden said, and at his tone — very uncharacteristically winded — Brett looked up to see him flushed past the makeup. “I got a little too intense, there, shit. We never even had a safeword, as if you even could've used it—”

“Hey,” Brett said, and Branden winced at how raw and hoarse he sounded. “Okay, don’t even fucking worry about it, I promise. I’ve had _so_ much worse. Both in terms of unexpectedly rough sex, and foreign objects down my gullet. No one passed out, and my esophagus wasn’t punctured, so overall, I think this was a _decided_ win.” At the doubt still evident on Branden’s face, Brett added, “And, hey, I enjoyed it too. Like, I know you’re still in your post-nut daze, don’t wanna make it all about me, but my dick is _steel_ right now.”

“Damn, you’re funny. I needed this.” Branden collapsed back onto the couch, dizzy from the rush of orgasm, absently stroking Brett’s face. “Post-nut daze emotions incoming.”

“Oh, hell yeah. Lemme have em.”

“I say this entirely sincerely. That was really fucking good." Brett felt like he could die happy, sitting here absorbing the praise and gentle petting and maybe he was still learning things about himself, but that voice in his head that had been panicking all evening was now gone. “Okay, both the night and the blowjob, really fucking good. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten head that good before. Like, ever ever. No offense man, your talents are wasted on swords.”

Brett started to laugh, but realized, with an unfamiliar pang he hadn’t felt since the early days, it rather hurt his voice to do so. “Ah, well, they're a bit more family friendly, I guess.”

Still, Branden looked down at him with utmost adoration. “You sure you’re good?”

“Never better,” he said, and he meant it.

Brett hoped he would make it through tomorrow night. There was no fucking way, of course. Not in a million years.

But he still hoped.

Bonavega licked his glossed lips, eyeing up Brett’s body. 

“In that case, I’m down for another go if you are,” he said, and if this was his last night on the show, then, well. Brett would make it one to remember.


End file.
